


Combustible Engine

by pennywife



Category: Leatherface (2017), The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (Movies)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Blood and Gore, Bodily Fluids, Consensual Violence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Disturbing Themes, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Graphic Description of Corpses, Loss of Virginity, Masochism, Murder, Painplay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sadism, Sexual Violence, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:28:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27414283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennywife/pseuds/pennywife
Summary: He’s so striking, you think, even when he’s wearing someone else’s face.
Relationships: Leatherface | Jedidiah Sawyer/Original Female Character(s), Leatherface | Jedidiah Sawyer/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	Combustible Engine

**Author's Note:**

> UHHHHHHHH how to even warn y’all about what the hell this is... Just... Please... please for the love of god... Read the tags... LAST CHANCE, DAWG! PLEASE READ THE TAGS!!!

There is no divide, you find, between fantasy and reality. You have always dreamed of the fatal grasp of metal parting and grinding you up, severing your body like cattle meat with the simple flex of an arm. 

Unwelcome, irrational joy hardens your nipples into peaks. Heart beating slowly, yellow scleras streaked with bolts of violet, and panties soaked with masochistic contentment— congealed and sticky like raw, Texas honey. Jedidiah’s eyes roll back into his head when he takes in the scent of you, blood and sweat and musk and urine; the stench of an animal cowering at the edge of its pen, knowing, dreading, waiting for the knife. You breathe him in too, now that he’s close enough. He smells the way boys always do whenever they come back in from outside.

Oh, but this boy is different, you remind yourself as your body hovers over the ground. This beautiful boy in an old leather muzzle has taken apart far more women than you could ever imagine like pieces of machinery, things to be rearranged and made anew whenever he sees fit. Never fucked them, though, never fucked anyone between the years of antipsychotics and the final implosion of his mind when that bullet had mangled his jaw. You can still feel them all trapped inside of here, their ghosts dancing through the strips of flypaper hanging at the edge of the room. Does he remember them all? Remember the pus, the screams, the mulching of their tissue under his pretty hands, rendering every corner of this old farmhouse befouled with the way it feels to watch someone die squealing in horror? He won’t meet your eyes, when you look at him for the answer, but you know in your chest that he does. He’s a Sawyer after all, from the tips of his ears to the steel toes of his boots, and he remembers every kill with as much vibrancy and color as he will someday remember you. 

He’ll sharpen the bones he doesn’t feed to the dogs into jewelry for his mother, playing with your entrails when he empties them out from your gut. He’ll keep your skull, your scalp, your short wavy hair; long, gentle fingers that wrecked upon you such unspeakable violence touching every strand with reverence. 

_“This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.”_

The hook in the blade of your shoulder has pierced its way through. The gash in your leg is deep and open, and the bubbled fat that bloomed out of it like kernels of corn now dry and caked with clotted blood. It oozes from hundreds of tiny opened veins and paints the floor black with the heat of you. Your daddy used to slaughter hogs in the winter. You don’t remember any of them bleeding like this. 

You’re mewling now, tears carving rivers through the grime on your face and washing it clean. You can tell from the way he steps back from you that he’s hard. Hard, like clockwork; a sadist in every sense of the word. 

“Please,” you whimper, and it surprises you that you don’t even know what it is that you’re asking him for. The only word that comes to mind when you search the haze of suffering at the back of your skull is: _more._

Jedidiah moves out from your line of sight, wheezing through the mask as he limps awkwardly across the floor. He’s so striking, you think, even when he’s wearing someone else’s face. 

You can hear the metal dragging against the surface of his vanity, the sound of his weapon falling down limp in his hands. The motor makes a sound, resonant, leaking with hunger, but even as he raises it up in between your dangling legs, you know it won’t end here. Not yet. 

The teeth nudge beneath the hem of your dress and roll up the cotton. He presses into the inside of your thigh hard enough to make it throb, cinching your artery like a heel stepping down on a hose. A combustible engine, your daddy had taught you. Never use a chainsaw indoors. 

Your murderer shifts the saw higher, curious, his sour breath blowing your hair back over onto your chest. He wants to see you squirm, grunts when you don’t; presses high enough to cinch the fabric and nudge your clit with the nose of the same long, steel bar that had nearly severed your leg. The pleasure returns, burgeoning out from the center of your silken drawers until you can’t even separate the want from pain from the hook and the stale trauma of your savaged leg and... oh God... Oh, Jed… He jostles the chain above you, and your body sings out with hymns. 

It isn’t mercy, when Jedidiah discards his weapon, lifts you from the hook and lets your body crumple down into a heap on your back. It’s the only way he knows how to get what he wants— and though you sob, and the hole in your shoulder weeps enough to color the blue of your dress a brilliant red, like fields of vermilion roses— he’s made up his mind anyway.

A scream, sharp as pieces of a broken mirror, rips its way through your vocal cords when he parts your ruined legs with his knees. Then, for the first time since his family dragged you down here like a present wrapped in pastel ribbon, you watch his eyes flash up to the door at the top of the stairs. It’s instinctive, dirty, the deeply-ingrained fear of being caught in the act of making love. Perhaps there is still some human left in him after all, like a sickness, or a stain. 

You think of what he used to be like before the mask, before Verna. The severity of the bridge of his nose. Irises filled with the rippling of midsummer moonlight over babbling brooks and rivers and ponds. The perfect breadth of his skin like cold, fresh milk; cheeks that blushed like strawberry wine when he’d think of you in his bed late at night, touching himself under his thin white sheets after the nurses shut out the lights. 

He touches himself again now, just like he used to, over the tent in his jeans. He watches your face as he does it, but there’s no moonlight in his eyes anymore. 

Your panties tug against your lower back, the elastic snapping and breaking free whenever Jedidiah gives them a quick, impatient tug. The air slaps at the heat of your spread bare cunt, swollen and wet, and your killer slaps his palm against a squalid space on the floor by your head. He works at his belt, desperate. The light of the candles is so much more dim than it was before, but he gives you a second, lets you see every inch of him before he guides it forward into you. Maybe it’s to scare you, you think. He’s so much bigger than you thought. 

One quick, violent lurching of his full bodyweight forward, and Jedidiah buries himself to the hilt. The thought of him feeling you, feeling anyone like this for the first time in his life, clenches your belly with want. A hard throb of arousal pulses its way from the place where your bodies are joined, all the way to the crux of the gore that litters you.

He thrusts his hips with wildfire, all but convulsing, the deranged world above miles away from how delicious it feels to dive again and again into the heat of your cunt. His moans are deep and loud, loud as the bellow of an angry bull when he pushes as deep as you’ll go. It punches the air from your lungs; quick, frenzied, drool leaking from the mummified mouth of some woman you’ve never met until you're begging for him to take it off. So that you can see him. Kiss him. Worship him. 

He doesn’t. 

Instead he shifts. His thumb digs violently into the chasm of your leg, kneading into your flesh and thrumming over dozens of pain receptors until the basement rages with blinding white light. You feel the warm oozing of blood against your ice cold thigh, invading you so callously that you swear to christ you can feel his fingernail scraping over your femur. The sound you let out is inhuman. He loves it. 

Sparks ignite and unfurl at the pit of your belly. If your arm still worked, if it wasn’t cold and numb outstretched beside you on the hardwood, you’d reach your hand down to feel how wide your soft lips are stretched around him. You’d roll your clit between your fingers, every hoofbeat of pleasure rallied on by the deadly torture he’s chosen to put you through until you’re gushing all over his perfect cock. You could; you won’t. None of this is for you. 

The thumb in your leg suddenly leaves. Your lips clamp beautifully into a cry of both agony and disappointment, before finding your mouth suddenly full again, full of the coppered taste of your own blood. Your tongue glides over his filthy nail, sucking hungrily. 

It makes him cum. It’s no surprise to you that it does. He rips off the mask and drops it to the side, sucking in gulps of air so violently it tears at the scar on the edge of his cheek. Drenched, scarlet; remnants of his handsome face squeezed tight. His back arches and he wails, popping your ears from the sheer volume of it, his hips stuttering before he jams himself all the way inside. You can feel him throbbing, shaking, spilling so heavily inside that some of it leaks back out onto the floor. 

A moment passes before he softens, his arms now weak against the weight of himself. He seems so placid now, so tame, that for a moment you almost forget exactly what this all is. 

Coyotes yip and cry in the distance. The sunless basement hums with footsteps from above. Bleached cow skulls furnish the peeled brick walls and panels so old they’ve begun to rot, cracking and powdering with fungal decay. 

He looks at you like he’s thinking. Stalling, long after he’s pulled up his pants and placed the mask back over his face. Maybe he’s weighing up trying to save you, but you guess it wouldn’t make any difference now. 

It’s you who breaks the tension, and the silence, when you swallow loudly and reach your unwounded hand out towards him. 

Once again, you clear your throat and you ask of him, “more.”   
  



End file.
